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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第91节

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and colophons; he could determine who’d taken what from whom。 He’d flip 
through certain books exhaustively in hope of finding a series of pictures。 Long 
silences passed wherein nothing but the faint susurrus of turning pages could 
be  heard。  Occasionally;  Master  Osman  would  cry  out  “Aha!”  but  I  kept  my 
peace; unable to understand what had excited him。 At times he would remind 
me  that  we’d  already  encountered  the  page  position  or  arrangement  of 
trees  and  mounted  soldiers  of  a  particular  illustration  in  other  books;  in 
different  scenes  of  pletely  different  stories;  and  he’d  point  out  these 
pictures  again  to  jog  my  memory。  He  pared  a  picture  in  a  version  of 
Nizami’s Quintet from the time of Tamerlane’s son Shah R?za—that is; from 
nearly  two  hundred  years  ago—with  another  picture  he  said  was  made  in 
Tabriz seventy or eighty years earlier; and then go on to ask me what we could 
learn from the fact that two miniaturists had created the same picture without 
having seen each other’s work。 He ansself: 
“To paint is to remember。” 
Opening and shutting old illuminated manuscripts; Master Osman would 
sink his face with sorrow into the wondrous artwork (because nobody could 
paint  this  way  anymore)  and  then  bee  animated  with  joy  before  poorly 
executed pieces (for all miniaturists were brethren!)—and he’d show me what 
the artist had remembered; that is; old pictures of trees; angels; parasols; tigers; 
tents; dragons and melancholy princes; and in the process; what he hinted at 
was  this:  There  was  a  time  when  Allah  looked  upon  the  world  in  all  its 
uniqueness;  and  believing  in  the  beauty  of  what  he  saw;  bequeathed  his 
creation to us; his servants。 The duty of illustrators and of those who; loving 
art; gaze upon the world; is to remember the magnificence that Allah beheld 
and left to us。 The greatest masters in each generation of painters; expending 
their  lives  and  toiling  until  blind;  strove  with  great  effort  and  inspiration  to 
attain and record the wondrous dream that Allah manded us to see。 Their 
work  resembled  Mankind  recalling  his  own  golden  memories  from  the  very 
beginning。 Unfortunately; even the greatest masters; just like tired old men or 
great  miniaturists  gone  blind  from  their  labors;  were  only  vaguely  able  to 
recollect  random  parts  of  that  magnificent  vision。  This  was  the  mysterious 
wisdom  behind  the  phenomenon  of  old  masters  who  miraculously  drew  a 
tree; a bird; the pose of a prince washing himself in the public baths or a sad 
young woman at a window in exactly the same way despite never having seen 
each other’s work and despite the hundreds of years that separated them。 
Long  afterward;  once  the  red  light  of  the  Treasury  had  dimmed  and  it 
became  evident  that  the  cabi  contained  none  of  the  gift  books  that  Shah 
329 
 
Tahmasp  had  sent  to  Our  Sultan’s  grandfather;  Master  Osman  revisited  the 
same logic: 
“At times; a bird’s wing; the way a leaf holds to a tree; the curves of eaves; 
the way a cloud floats or the laugh of a woman is preserved for centuries by 
passing from master to disciple and being shown; taught and memorized over 
generations。  Having  learned  this  detail  from  his  master;  the  miniaturist 
believes it to be a perfect form; and is as convinced of its immutability as he is 
of the glorious Koran’s; and just as he memorizes the Koran; he’ll never forget 
this detail indelibly painted in his memory。 However; never forgetting does not 
mean  the  master  artist  will  always  use  this  detail。  The  customs  of  the 
workshop wherein he extinguishes the light of his eyes; the habits and taste for 
color of the ornery master beside him or the whims of his sultan will; at times; 
prevent him from painting that detail; and he’ll draw a bird’s wing; or the way 
a woman laughs—” 
“Or the nostrils of a horse。” 
“—or the nostrils of a horse;” said a stone…faced Master Osman; “not the 
way it’s been ingrained in the depths of his soul; but according to the custom 
of  the  workshop  where  he  presently  finds  himself;  just  like  the  others  there。 
Do you understand me?” 
From a page in Nizami’s Hüsrev and Shirin; quite a few versions of which 
we’d  thumbed  through  already;  in  a  picture  depicting  Shirin  seated  on  her 
throne; Master Osman read aloud an inscription engraved on two stone plates 
above  the  palace  walls:  EXALTED  ALLAH  PRESERVE  THE  POWER  OF  THE 
VICTORIOUS  SON  OF  TAMERLANE  KHAN;  OUR  NOBLE  SULTAN;  OUR  JUST 
KHAN; PROTECT HIS SOVEREIGNTY AND DOMAINS SO HE MAY FOREVER BE 
CONTENTED  (the  leftmost  stone  read)  AND  WEALTHY  (the  rightmost  stone 
read)。 
Later; I asked; “Where might we find illustrations wherein the miniaturist 
has  rendered  a  horse’s  nostrils  in  the  same  way  they  were  etched  upon  his 
memory?” 
“We  must  locate  the  legendary  Book  of  Kings  volume  that  Shah  Tahmasp 
sent as a gift;” said Master Osman。 “We must revisit those glorious old days of 
legend; when Allah had a hand in the painting of miniatures。 We have many 
more books yet to examine。” 
It crossed my mind that; just perhaps; Master Osman’s main goal was not 
to  find  horses  with  peculiarly  drawn  noses;  but  to  scrutinize  as  much  as 
possible  these  spectacular  pictures  that  had  slept  quietly  for  years  in  this 
330 
 
Treasury  safe  from  prying  eyes。  I  grew  so  impatient  to  find  the  clues  that 
would  unite  me  with  Shekure;  who  awaited  me  at  the  house;  that  I’d  been 
loath to believe that the great master might want to stay in the icy Treasury as 
long as possible。 
Thus did we persist in opening other cabis; other chests shown us by the 
aged dwarf; to examine the pictures therein。 Periodically; I’d get fed up with 
the pictures; which all looked alike; and wish never again to watch Hüsrev visit 
Shirin under the castle window; I’d  leave  the  master’s side—without  even  a 
glance at the nostrils of the horse Hüsrev rode—and try to warm myself at the 
brazier or I’d walk respectfully and awestruck among the heaps of cloth; gold; 
weapons; armor and plunder in the adjacent rooms of the Treasury。 At times; 
prompted by an abrupt cry and hand gesture by Master Osman; I’d imagine 
that a new masterpiece had been found or; yes; at last a horse with a curious 
nose; and running to his side; I’d look at the picture the master was holding 
with his hand slightly atremble as he sat curled up on an Ushak carpet dating 
from  the  time  of  Sultan  Mehmed  the  Conqueror;  only  to  encounter  an 
illustration; the likes of which I’d never before seen; depicting; say; Satan slyly 
boarding Noah’s ark。 
We watched as hundreds of shahs; kings; sultans and khans—who’d ruled 
from the thrones of various kingdoms and empires from the time of Tamerlane 
to  Sultan  Süleyman  the  Magnificent—happily  and  excitedly  hunted  gazelles; 
lions  and  rabbits。  We  saw  how  even  the  Devil  bit  his  finger  and  recoiled  in 
embarrassment at the shameless man who stood upon scraps of wood tied to 
the back legs of a camel so he could violate the poor animal。 In an Arabic book 
that had e by way of Baghdad; we watched the flight of the merchant who 
clung to the feet of a mythical bird as he spanned the seas。 In the next volume; 
which opened by itself to the first page; we saw the scene that Shekure and I 
loved the most; in which Shirin beheld Hüsrev’s picture hanging from a branch 
and fell in love with him。 Then; looking at an illustration that brought to life 
the inner workings of a plicated clock made from bobbins and metal balls; 
birds and Arabic statuettes seated on the back of an elephant; we remembered 
time。 
I  don’t  know  how  much  more  time  we  spent  examining  book  after  book 
and illustration after illustration in this manner。 It was as if the unchanging; 
frozen  golden  time  revealed  in  the  pictures  and  stories  we  viewed  had 
thoroughly  mingled  with  the  damp  and  moldy  time  we  experienced  in  the 
Treasury。 It seemed that these illuminated pages; created over the centuries by 
the lavish expenditure of eyesight in the workshops of countless shahs; khans 
331 
 
and sultans; would e to life; as would the objects that seemed to besiege 
us:  The  helmets;  scimitars;  daggers  with  diamond…studded  handles;  armor; 
porcelain cups from China; dusty and delicate lutes; and the pearl…embellished 
cushions and kilims—the likes of which we’d seen in countless illustrations。 
“I  now  understand  that  by  furtively  and  gradually  re…creating  the  same 
pictures  for  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years;  thousands  of  artists  had 
cunningly depicted the gradual transformation of their world into another。” 
I’ll  be  first  to  admit  that  I  didn’t  pletely  understand  what  the  great 
master meant。 But the close attention my master had shown to the thousands 
of pictures made over the last t

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